


Target Practice

by qvill



Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Grian/Doc but if you really squint, Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Whump, Winged Grian, lil - Freeform, man i wrote this in an afternoon, no beta we die like men, references to season 6, ring ring hello its whump hours, season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24850840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qvill/pseuds/qvill
Summary: Grian finds flying among the Phantom flocks to be a fun, nostalgic throwback to their previous season. It’s an innocent, fun happenstance, unharmed as he bears the Phantom head mask, and he’s not even going to send them into Mumbo’s base! Even if the idea is quite tempting…Doc finds himself in a nostalgic pursuit himself, hefting a freshly enchanted trident from one organic hand to a metallic one, feeling the comfortable, balanced weight. It’s been a good while since he’s had his former go-to weapon in hand— so, some target practice is in order. And, he notes, hearing the distant foreboding cries, it seems that he has some volunteers.[ or, two hermits find themselves chasing some of that good good season six nostalgia, and unfortunately, the other was not aware. grian flies around. doc has some target practice. ]
Comments: 24
Kudos: 318





	Target Practice

**Author's Note:**

> okay so this was supposed to be a page of random hurt/injury but yknow it just kinda kept on going
> 
> Aka, the idea was that I wanted to use the idea of Grian getting hit out of the sky, and then thought there'd be an added layer of Interesting if he's up to some antics and hurt via a misunderstanding
> 
> anyway , I def don't know enough about doc besides he had a sick ass trident in season 6, and knew that round that time grian did some fun phantom pranks. voila.

Grian doesn’t need the Phantoms to tell him that he hasn’t slept nearly enough in the past few days, let alone the past month, but the auditory reminder is a little harder to ignore than the weariness that he’s been pushing down, night after night. If asked, he’d defend himself fervently— technically, he  _ has  _ been sleeping! 

Too bad the Phantoms think that an hour or so of sleep isn’t adequate. Not his problem ( _ it most certainly is).  _

But, he couldn’t ignore the mobs’ persistence. The reverse alarm clocks cry out into the night, and Grian only has a moment to steady himself against the side of his nearly-finished mansion when one of the shadowy mobs fly right into the wall beside him, scrabbling for purchase before pushing off and gliding back towards the flock. He sighs, and, after a few minutes trying to finish up the elaborate, stupidly diagonal window ledge, he shuffles his own wings, and slowly glides towards the amalgamation of chests and shulker boxes. 

Funnily enough, as he begins to clean up and prepare to finish the night’s building antics, the Phantom flock seem to respectfully drift around. He catches sight of many pairs of green eyes, twinkling in and out of sight, as if mirroring the speckled night sky they herald from. It’s quite the lovely sight, if he’s being honest. 

He tiredly stretches his wings, the dappled grey and brown feathers shifting with every movement. The extreme control over his flight compared to the other hermits, thanks to a more naturalistic wingset, has its cons, although he’d never admit it. Despite their flight-based composition, they’re still quite the weight upon his shoulders, and maneuverability and accessibility are gained in exchange for sacrificing his own energy to use them. 

_ Which _ wouldn’t be a problem on it’s own, but he’s already so deep in late nights of building and lingering exhaustion that sometimes, he wishes he could slip them off. 

Alas, he knows he’d never give them up, and so he hefts the night’s building materials into a freshly placed chest, and glances back up towards the sky. 

It’s a half-moon, with just enough light to see the outlines of the Phantoms. A good few are circling above the winged hermit, while a few others placidly perch on nearby jungle trees, simply peering at him from afar. 

The general consensus was that they were fair nuisances for the hermits, but then again, hardly any hermit could claim to have healthy enough sleeping habits to deter the mobs entirely, besides Wels and Bdubs. Grian, however, with a track record rivaling Xisuma for shoddy sleep schedules, dealt with them the most (X, often hunkered into one of his admin rooms, hardly was outside enough for the Phantoms to even approach). 

But Grian liked them. 

He was never quite sure why— perhaps, it was that upon entering the far updated world of season 6, they were the first bewinged entity that he had known besides bats and the legendary Ender Dragon. But those hardly counted— one far too small, one far too big, and he hadn’t even known what Vexes were. But Phantoms? Sure, they led to a fair amount of respawns for the builder, but they were aesthetically pleasing, followed behavioral patterns, and steadily, became very familiar nighttime companions for his building marathons. 

So, if the hostile mobs decided to be oddly placated by his presence, then he wasn’t complaining. In fact…

Grian grins, and, with a flourish of his wings, darts into the dense jungle. He can hear the flurry of wingbeats as the Phantoms fly overhead, but he maneuvers expertly between the dense trees and swiftly arrives before his hobbit hole base. He dives into the doorway, catching his feet beneath him as he stumbles towards some chests, and sifts through them. 

It takes a fair few minutes, but he eventually finds what he’s looking for— the head chest. After the Head Games ended, they lost their monetary value, but were still fun. And, if you put a few minutes into hollowing them out and preparing them, they make nice masks! He pushes his collection of pesky bird masks to the side, and eventually grabs a shadowed mask from the depths of the chest. 

Grian sets down another shulker box and sloughs off his armor, keeping just necessary tools on hand before slipping the Phantom mask on, and he even grabs a dark jacket that he finds tossed onto an abandoned chest for good measure. In the dark, he’d look close enough to a bonafide Phantom that the few unacquainted with the sleepless builder wouldn’t turn hostile. 

And, as he steps back outside the hobbit hole, he’s met with a number of divebombing Phantoms that he only giggles at. A small one perches atop his head, whilst a larger one scrabbles for purchase on his arm. A few Phantoms, unfamiliar with the hermit and even more unfamiliar with the bipedal Phantom, stay to the skies or the trees, but, as proven with time, don’t attack. 

Grian smiles, gently nudging those that cling to him away, and with a powerful wingbeat, takes to the sky, joining the flock as they circle around the jungle, before soaring towards the outskirts. 

He did this a number of times in the last season, after the local Phantom flocks became placid around him. It’s quite the mystical experience, being among a typically hostile creature as an equal. And  _ maybe  _ Grian has a history of using this unique kinship towards the winged mobs to prank his neighbors, but that’s beside the point. It’s fun, it’s calming, and he can spare twenty minutes basking in the nostalgia before  _ finally  _ going to bed. 

It’s  _ fine.  _

\----

Doc grins. 

The cyborg, over the current season, had taken an affinity towards the standard weapon set, but of  _ course  _ he couldn’t bring himself to completely abandon his dedication for tridents. And, after investing in a plethora of enchantments for the weapon that had dropped from a Drowned that strayed too close for comfort, he found himself delighted to have the weapon in his hands once more. 

It has a certain comforting weight to it, easy to balance atop a single metallic finger despite the bulkier, forked end. The crystalline metal glistens against the moonlight, and the pulsing glow from the enchantments are quite mesmerizing. But, what use is a powerful weapon if he’s not going to use it? 

Doc smirks as he tosses the trident from one hand to the other, organic to metal and back again, as he strides towards the outskirts of the shopping district. He’s had a few days of infrequent sleep, so the wandering Phantoms should come close enough for some target practice.

Or, Grian probably had already attracted all the flocks on the server with his mansion. Or Mumbo, with his towering build, or his industrial section. Or Scar, staying up late as usual, practicing magic. Or X, working on fixing a glitch or investigating potential updates. Or—

Doc laughs and shakes his head. Honestly, they  _ all  _ should be getting more sleep than they admit. After all, they’d start getting risky if it got beyond their normal abhorrent sleep schedules. Not even mentioning the physical and mental detriments of working with little to no sleep, it had an impact on respawning capabilities. With minimal sleep, one could take longer to respawn, retain some wounds… even get permanent scars, as evidenced by Scar and their admin. 

He glances up at the sound of a distant cry, and a grin grows on his face as a fairly large Phantom flock begins to approach the shopping district. He’d sleep later tonight, most certainly. 

But now? He grins. 

_ Target practice.  _

\---

Grian certainly isn’t leading the flock; somehow, it seems, that the mobs have a hivemind, because how else would they know exactly which players were the most sleepless? Any way, the group of Phantoms drift over the sea, and the mushroom island hosting the shopping district comes into sight, illuminated by decorative shops and many, many glowstone blocks, torches, and lanterns. It’s practically just as bright as it is during the day, but with a nighttime mysticism. 

And, hivemind as they are, Grian watches as they begin to drift and circle downward through the transparent glass eyes in his mask, and he spreads his wings wide, trying to match the uniform pace. A hermit must be here, in the depths of the night. 

Well, he didn’t  _ intend  _ on pranking anyone, but the opportunity is  _ right here _ , and it’d be a mighty waste to  _ not _ … 

Well, he’ll just have to see who’s the victim of the G-Man tonight! And  _ then  _ he’ll prank them. 

And  _ then  _ he’ll sleep. That’s a solid plan, right? Certainly. Probably. 

Maybe. 

_ Anyway _ , Grian sticks with the Phantoms’ slow, gliding descent, even going so far as to keep his wings as perpendicular as possible and legs held together. And, Grian notes gleefully, it seems to be working. There’s a figure standing at the edges of the shopping district, who looks towards the flock and makes no indication that they see a hermit disguised among the group. And, as the Phantoms circle around past the figure, before swooping a little closer as they double back, Grian catches sight of enough green creeper fluff and cybernetic mechanisms to identify it as Doc. 

Grian hadn’t seen the cyborg too much this season, and especially not in the recent weeks, but he knew Doc well enough for this to work. He was gruff and far too serious for Grian’s lighthearted demeanor, but he means well and knows how to take a prank or a joke in stride. He  _ was  _ the first one tagged, all that time ago, Grian reminisces, and a nostalgic smile grows beneath the Phantom mask. 

Said smile quickly fades when there’s a metallic  _ shink,  _ a whooshing of air, and a trident pierces straight through the abdomen of the Phantom beside Grian. His shriek of surprise is lost in the quick cacophony of Phantom cries as the flock breaks away momentarily before regrouping for another swoop. Grian watches as the trident flies back towards Doc’s awaiting hand, the slain Phantom falling off of the forked end and disappearing in a puff of particles, leaving behind a handful of starry scales. 

T’was quite the scare, but that’s alright! Grian turns with the Phantoms, flying a little lower. He just has to get close enough, and then tackle Doc when he’s not looking! There’s enough Phantoms that he won’t be singled out, and he can already imagine the surprised shout when Doc realizes he’s not just facing off against the winged mobs. 

The trident flies through the air again, narrowly missing the Phantoms, but clipping through a random one’s wing as it flies back to Doc’s hand. Grian can see Doc scanning the flock, looking just enough in the other direction… he doubles back around, merging back with the flock, ready to tuck his wings against his side and fly into Doc’s back, and… 

Grian hears the trident being thrown again: the  _ shink  _ as it’s released from Doc’s metal hand, the whooshing through air, and— 

the impact. 

Grian’s flight stutters as he’s confused, questioning,  _ where’s the impact _ , and— oh.  _ Oh.  _

The overly-enchanted trident cleaves through his wing, puncturing the layer of feathers, the thin flesh, and hooking its barbed points against thin avian bones that  _ snap  _ with the sheer force of the throw. Grian  _ shrieks _ as overwhelming pain of different varieties shoot through his wing, his body, his mind, and it  _ hurts,  _ and the trident’s trajectory sends the winged hermit veering to the side. 

But it hardly compares to the the enchanted pulse of light as  _ loyalty  _ activates. Spinning and in a rapid descent and crying out, the trident  _ whips  _ downward, pulling another guttural cry from Grian. The lengthy forks of the trident retract through his flesh but the barbed points catch onto delicate sinew and muscle and bone, resilient  _ just enough  _ that the returning trident drags Grian rapidly toward the awaiting Doc, before it breaks through. He sobs out as the trident’s barbs  _ rip  _ through the last flesh and bone in its way, leaving a large, jagged hole in Grian’s wing, and distantly, he can hear the metallic connection of Doc’s hand to the trident’s handle, a curious ‘ _ hmm?’,  _ and Grian’s back meets the firm mycelium earth. He yelps at the bludgeoning impact, but he full-on  _ screams  _ as the impact hits the gouged out hole in his wing, his back and the earth slamming into the burning nerves. 

And the world is spinning and all he can process is  _ pain,  _ wave after wave pulsating from the sensitive limb, and it’s all just pain and pain and pain and  _ pain  _ and he shuts his eyes tight, feeling the tears welling up as a sob wracks through his chest and his intact wing thumps against the dirt, attempting to find some purchase or relief from the pure, unbridled agony. 

A faint part of his mind pays attention to the clattering of a trident falling against the ground, of footsteps thundering against a stone walkway, of panicked muttering sounding from above. Fingers grip onto the edge of the Phantom mask, roughly pulling it off, and another whimper tries to escape his lips as he hears a barrage of quiet, panicked curses. 

A hand suddenly presses onto the torn wing, and Grian screams out once more. The cold touch isn’t even  _ near  _ the wound but the nerves through the wing ignite nevertheless and his free wing thumps against the ground once more, as if trying to scare the pain off. 

It seems to work somewhat, however, as the chilled hand pulls away, and he instinctively tries to pull it closer, only earning another hissing cry from his own throat. 

It takes a fair while longer to realize that there’s  _ noise _ , that there’s any sensation but pain and touch and  _ pain  _ and the taste of copper, teeth digging into his own tongue to try and hide the shouts, of some primal instinct to stay quiet, stay small, stay  _ safe… _

But there’s noise. 

There’s distant Phantom cries, fading with every passing moment, there’s his own heartbeat trying to beat through his ribs, there’s faint mumbles and curses and he numbly focuses on  _ that _ . The words escape him, but his mind tingles in a faint, undeniable curiosity. And so, he feeds into that sense, trying to pull his mind off of anything and  _ everything.  _

There’s… shuffling. Items being pushed about. Footsteps clacking against stone. There’s… cursing, there’s the sound of a shulker box closing, he knows that sound, and there’s the sound of a chest opening. No— it’s deeper and heavier. Ender chest. He pushes his thoughts toward the mental image, trying to simply  _ process.  _

There’s… more items shuffling. Clanking. And faintly, there’s a hiss, and Grian  _ knows that sound _ . 

His mind screams  _ predator _ at the faint hissing ignition of a creeper, and that’s enough to force him into feeding other senses. With a breathy sob, he slowly opens his eyes, blinking once, twice, and trying to focus and find what reignites his adrenaline. 

His blurry gaze focuses on the familiar, terrifying green from which the creeper’s hissing originates, but… his mind spins momentarily, trying to pull relevant information through the slow network of his mind. It’s Doc. Gritting his teeth and shuffling through an ender chest, grabbing a filled potion bottle, scrutinizing its contents, and haphazardly dropping it to the ground before searching back through the chest. 

Grian had never heard the cyborg hiss before— maybe, he numbly muses, it’s just something instinctual from his creeper half. Maybe it’s when he’s stressed or panicking or scared. 

Maybe. Grian loses his grasp on the train of thought, and his head lulls back against the ground as his eyelids slide shut. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


and he isn’t sure if time has passed by the time there’s any sound to analyze, but when it happens, he can only offer a quiet whimper in response to the clinking of glass and the thundering footsteps that approach.

Touch resumes, too, Grian faintly notes, as a hand cradles behind his head, pulling it up a few inches, and something cool presses against his mouth. He cuts off the whine building in his throat as he instinctively tries to move, but forces his eyes open nonetheless. 

Doc looks… scared. The cybernetic eye is as emotionless as always, but his organic one is wide, his teeth are gritted, and… he looks scared. 

Grian almost wonders  _ why _ , before the potion bottle is pressed towards his mouth once more, and he can’t bring himself to defend his dignity when pain spikes through his wing at the mere thought of being in pain. And so, he accepts the potion, trying to grab at it and support it himself as the sickly sweet potion flows down his throat. 

Immediately, a wave a pain shoots through his body and he cries out again, curling upwards and grabbing onto Doc as everything  _ stings _ , and Doc tries to keep him steady. But the regenerative potion lives up to its name soon enough, and as its bitter sting fades, it carries the wound and his consciousness with it, falling limp into Doc’s grasp as the cyborg sets him against the shopping district path. 

And if Grian noticed the desperate sigh of relief, noticed the overwhelming tremble in the stoic man’s hands, then he doesn’t mention it when he wakes. 

**Author's Note:**

> also please comment if you like or have any thoughts !! tbh i just wanted to write some h/c whump because i'm waiting for the next ep of a dnd podcast that's Really Gonna Hurt


End file.
